The half dragon nodded in desultory agreement- though he could feel a dangerous fire growing within his heart. He'd ripped the tongue from many a human for far less an offense against him. A low rumble began deep within his massive chest. His clawed hands twitched, as if eager to part the cleric's flesh. The half-dragon took a step toward the old man.
If the abbot felt any fear at his advance, Drakken could not see it. The cleric returned his measured gaze evenly. The half-dragon's monstrous face split into a toothy smile. It had been a very long time since he had faced an opponent worthy of his respect. He took another step forward, and stopped. The air within the abbot's chamber grew heavy with anticipation, like the moment before a raging storm.
And cleared suddenly, as the pounding of fists thudded dully on the chamber door.
"Blessed One, is everything all right?" came a muffled tenor voice from behind the dark oak wood.
"Yes, Brother Anwen," replied the abbot, once again the kindly cleric. "We are quite all right. Would you be so good as to bring in some of Brother Rafhard's root stew-and some tea, as well?"
Drakken heard a heavy sigh before footsteps faded softly in to the distance. Silence ruled the room once more. Meremont smiled, and motioned to the fallen chair. The half-dragon bent down and righted the furniture. Whatever had possessed him a moment ago had faded, like the heat from a bonfire suddenly banked. However, he felt the warmth of its embers burning fitfully somewhere deep within him.
Another knock on the door followed, as three white-robed novices appeared quietly, two with stoneware crocks in hand. The third carried a tray with steaming mugs. Each bowed carefully to the abbot and placed the food and drink upon the wooden desk before leaving.
"Something is indeed amiss with you," the abbot said, holding a mug of tea between his ancient hands, "something most unfortunate, if mysterious. But murder-no." He shook his head in emphasis. "I do not believe that you are to blame for Arranoth's death."
"But how can you be sure, Blessed One?" Drakken asked.
The half-dragon sat with arms tightly folded across the expanse of his muscular chest. It was the only way he could disguise the trembling of his hands.
"Do you remember what brought you to us, my son?" the cleric asked.
"Of course," the struggling penitent responded. Then, after seeing the abbot's expectant look, he protested. "You already know why I came to the abbey!"
Meremont set down his mug of tea and once more turned his gaze upon the half-dragon.
"The question is, do you?" he said with a hint of the old iron in his voice.
Drakken relented. Years following the bloody path of the sword had shown him how to evaluate the tides of war. It was a battle he would not win.
"My army had just overrun another village," the half-dragon spoke after only another moment's hesitation. "Which one I did not know, for they all began to bleed together in my mind. We had already killed the men and put the women to work, but it was the children…"
He stopped, unable to continue. The memory of that day lived fresh in his mind, burned there permanently. Talking about it made it more real. The scent of blood, the screams of the dying and those who prayed for death. Fire, sword, and pain-he was among them once again; their master and in truth, their slave. For five years, he had lived each day in the middle of that moment, that never-ending abyss. Peace was a forgetting of sorts, a brief respite from the dark demands of guilt and shame. Remembering it all, however, he felt the stirrings of a darker hunger.
"There was a man," Drakken continued, forcing his mind away from the swamp of his inner thoughts, "dressed in old rags. He was weeping loudly, sobbing over the broken bodies around him. It was as if I could hear in his voice the wails of every dead man, woman, and child in the village. It made me angry. I drew my sword and approached him. I could see that his body was scarred, broken as well. I angled my sword above his head, ready to drive the point into his brain-and he looked at me. Those eyes…" Drakken paused again, his own face suffused with wonder. "They were like stars burning into my heart. I knew at once who he was-and that he wasn't crying for the villagers who died."
Another pause, and Drakken leaned forward before speaking. His voice, when it finally came, rumbled with emotion.
"He was weeping for me."
"I dropped my sword and stared at the man, not caring who witnessed. I turned my head for a moment, and when I looked back, he was gone. I searched the village high and low for him, bellowing hard at my men when I could not find him. I sent out scouts into the wild woods beyond the camp, and when they eventually came back empty-handed, I wandered the hills myself. I searched for days, driven on by the wound his long gaze had made in my heart. The next thing I remember, I found myself kneeling before the door to White Willow, begging to come in."
Drakken rested his scaled head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes, and finished, "I am so sick of blood."
"There, you see," said the abbot. "You have your answer. You could no more have killed Brother Arranoth than I."
Drakken swallowed hard. The weight of Meremont's faith pressed in upon him.
"How can you be so sure, Blessed One, when I doubt myself so?"
The old cleric took a careful sip of tea from the earthenware mug, and his thin lips parted in a gentle smile.
"It is not your belief-or lack of it-that I find important," he said. "For good or ill, Ilmater chose you. You did not choose him. I trust that choice."
The half-dragon frowned, still unconvinced. Though the time he had spent at the abbey had watered the seed of his own faith, Drakken found the concept that a god would take special interest in him disturbing. Besides, he thought bitterly, no one could deny the damning evidence of his dreams. Perhaps he was beyond the reach of any god.
He shared none of his thoughts' dark turnings with the abbot.
"If I didn't kill Arranoth," he asked instead, hoping to direct the course of the conversation away from him, "then who did?"
"The truth is," the abbot replied, "we don't know. Some opposing power frustrates our attempts at divination. I have sent a letter to the temple near They-marsh, hoping that the Ilmatari clerics there can send someone with greater skills than we have here in our humble abbey."
Meremont paused, setting down his mug before continuing in an even voice, "Which is why, ultimately, I wished to speak with you."
Drakken stared at the old cleric, trying not to feel like a rabbit caught in a carefully prepared snare-and failing.
"Until we have received help from Theymarsh," the abbot said, "I want you to investigate the murder of Brother Arranoth."
"Me?" the half-dragon nearly shouted. "Why-?"
"Simply because," Meremont interjected, "I ask it."
Drakken caught the dangerous flash of fire in the stern abbot's eyes and stifled his protest.
"Besides," the cleric reasoned, "you have been servant to the brethren for many years. Your coming and going will remain unnoticed by any of the brothers. You are uniquely suited for this investigation"
"And," Drakken said at last, not quite keeping the bitterness from his voice, "if the murderer does dwell among us, I am quite capable of 'dealing' with him."
"Perhaps," the abbot offered with a slight frown. "But there is something else, as well. Rangers from the Winterwood have reported a large band of humanoids-ores-heading out of the forest toward the surrounding hills."
"What do they seek? Are they a warband? What are their numbers?" Drakken asked.
Despite his time as a servant to the Servants of Ilmater, martial instincts long buried flared to life. He found himself calculating the best means of defending the abbey walls from orcs.
"From what the rangers have reported, they are fleeing the depredations of the green dragon known as Foilsunder. A few tendays ago, the beast began rampaging through the Winterwood, apparently destroying everything in its path. The rangers have not been able to come up with a final tally, but they suspect the band of orcs measures over a hundred, with several shamans in tow."
"Then we should seal the abbey gates and post scouts in the hills." Drakken stood and began pacing back and forth. "There is much to do."
"Yes," agreed the abbot, "and I have already done it. Messengers are even now making their way to the nearby villages and offering sanctuary at the abbey. Every brother is preparing for the influx of refugees. That is why I need you to focus on finding Arranoth's killer. I can spare no one else."
"But I wouldn't even know where to begin," Drakken protested weakly.
He was born for war, not slinking around in the darkness. Somehow, he would make the abbot see the mistake he was making. But Meremont held up his hand in a gesture that forestalled any further deliberation.
"Begin by looking in Brother Arranoth's cell," the abbot ordered. "Perhaps you will find something useful there."
A knock on the door interrupted the cleric.